


And Know the Place for the First Time

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Big Eden (2000)
Genre: Canon Gay Characters, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Queer Character of Color, Do Not Make Henry Hart Angry, Food, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Protective Pike Dexter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know this guy's type, Pike, okay? William Wentworth IV, his name is, and they're a dime a dozen in the New York art world. Cultured old money elitists who calculate the dollar value of everyone and everything they see and don't understand the meaning of 'no.'" Henry shakes his head. "I don't want him coming out here with a dozen high-end real estate developers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Know the Place for the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: lots of food; mild bashing of a female character (Mary Margaret)

Pike answers the store phone and regrets it instantly.

"Where's Henry?" the voice on the other end demands without preamble.

Pike pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the handset as though it's done this to him on purpose. He knows how close Henry and Mary Margaret are supposed to be. He knows because Henry has told him and told him and told him again, so many times the words ring hollow in his head. Mary Margaret's like a sister. Mary Margaret was my first friend in New York. Mary Margaret believed in me and my work when no one else did ("No one outside Big Eden," Pike always keeps himself from saying at that point).

But Pike dislikes Mary Margaret with an intensity he can't usually muster for relative strangers. She's rubbed him wrong since they first met. The way she speaks to Henry gives the lie to the closeness they claim to share, and Henry's constant insistence that they mean the world to each other leaves Pike wondering which of them he's trying to convince.

"Hello, Mary Margaret," Pike says wearily.

"Yes, hello, what _ever_." Pike pictures her dismissive hand wave. "Where is he?"

"Not here," Pike says, handset halfway back to the cradle.

"He has to be! He's not at the house!"

"Big Eden does have other places," Pike says through gritted teeth. His protectiveness toward his town may factor into his feelings toward Mary Margaret.

"Where is he? What's the number? I have to talk to him!"

Pike rubs his fingertips against his forehead. He notes Jim watching him over the edge of the newspaper, but Pike nods once, and Jim snorts and goes back to reading. "I don't know, Mary Margaret," Pike says. "He's painting today."

This catches her up. Pike knows she's picturing the area around Big Eden, the vast spaces and fascinating natural features that constantly draw Henry and his canvases back to them. To Henry and Pike, sources of inspiration and comfort; to Mary Margaret, obstacles keeping her from Henry. "Can't you—I don't know—get him a message?"

"I could send up smoke signals," he offers, without inflection. He may also still be pissed about all the times she's referred to him as "the Indian." On the other side of the counter, Jim laughs so hard Pike fears he'll choke on it.

"Listen," Mary Margaret says, voice hard and sharp, "make sure he calls me. As soon as he can." She hangs up.  
  
Pike replaces the handset and stares at it. He wishes he had a couple minutes alone to sort out the things, none of them pleasant, he's feeling. But Macy Thayer comes in looking for bait and ammo, and by the time she's gone (girl could give her grandmother a run for her money in the talk department), the phone call's gone clean out of his head.

*

Pike taught himself how to cook for Henry Hart's sake. He keeps cooking for his own. Some people think Pike isn't smart because he says so little, but really he's quiet because he thinks _so much_ he doesn't know how to separate one thread and turn it into a coherent conversation. Better to keep silent and have someone think he's stupid than to spill words over someone and have them think he's crazy.

Cooking is the one of the only pursuits he's found that quiets the maelstrom and lets him focus on on thing at a time. He finds the rhythm to it, the demand for attention, extremely calming.

Plus, Henry's still mostly a disaster in the kitchen. If Pike doesn't cook, they don't eat.

Tonight Pike's making arancini with leftover rice from last night's risotto. That saves him time, but it's still a fiddly process. He falls into the rhythm, losing himself in the small, precise motions of rolling and stuffing. Before he knows it, he has a good-sized pyramid ready for the pan.

Then Frances is running, and the door is swinging open, and "My god, it smells good in here!"

Of all the things Henry has done that the residents of Big Eden don't understand, the one that puzzled them most was when he sold Sam Hart's house to Dean and Anna and the kids and moved into the store with Pike and Frances. Pike had seen the speculative looks everyone gave them when Henry moved in, weighing the size of the cabin against the size of the personal bubble Pike needs. They don't see that he needs less with Henry, because Henry has that rare ability to share Pike's space while giving him his space. A talent honed in the New York subway, Henry jokes, but the way he squeezes Pike's hand just this side of too tight when he says it tells Pike there are stories there that Henry isn't ready to tell.

The only time Pike mourns the loss of spaciousness is in moments like this, when Henry tries to ingratiate himself into the cooking process and gets swatted with a wooden spoon for his troubles. Pike hip-checks him toward the door and makes him promise not to touch anything. Then he goes back to work in peace, the sounds of the kitchen now counterpointed by the sounds of Henry unpacking his supplies and muttering about—well, Pike doesn't know what. Henry isn't talking to him, and eavesdropping is impolite.

Henry talks throughout dinner. Sometimes they eat in silence, quietly enjoying each other's company. But when Henry's been painting, he has a lot to say, and Pike's content to let him say it. When Henry talks about painting, he opens worlds for Pike. Worlds of color and light angles, of pigment and brush and canvas. Henry's words make even the ordinary world of Big Eden, the one Pike's known all his life, seem mysterious and teeming with possibility.

Tonight it's a bittersweet feeling, because talking about Henry's painting reminds him about Mary Margaret's call. He puts it off as long as he can, but eventually Henry winds down, smiles at Pike across the table, and says, "What about you?"

Pike shrugs one shoulder and says, "Mary Margaret called looking for you." He holds his breath.

Time was—and not so long ago—that announcement would've sent Henry running for the phone—and the airport, if Mary Margaret demanded it. Now he just looks mildly intrigued, like when someone leaves a new novel in the bookshelf, and says, "She say what she wanted?"

"Not to me." Pike tries to keep his voice neutral, but given the frown that flashes across Henry's face, he doesn't succeed. He doesn't need Mary Margaret to like him. But Henry's life would be easier if she didn't _hate_ Pike—or at least didn't still resent, a year later, that Henry "abandoned" New York to be with him.

Henry's expression clears, and he smiles and squeezes Pike's hand across the table. "I'll call her after dessert."

Because of Henry's excess painting day energy, "after dessert" means "after making out on the couch like teenagers for half an hour and then eating cream puffs." Pike loves kissing Henry anytime, but painting day is special. On painting day, Henry touches Pike's hair and his cheek and says words like "Obsidian Mood" and "Prairie Ochre" and other ridiculous paint color names he would use if he were painting Pike. On painting day, sometimes Henry takes a brush and drags the cleaned, dried bristles across Pike's arms and chest, draws lines and swirls and signs his name. On painting day, Pike can easily believe his love is returned in equal measure.

While Pike (eventually) cleans the dinner dishes, Henry leans against the counter and makes the call. Pike tunes out the words. Eavesdropping is improper, for one thing. For another, Henry and Mary Margaret speak a different language together. A sharp, coded language of dropped names, casual insults, and inside jokes. Pike's happy to leave them to it.

Anyway, he gets a better sense of the conversation from Henry's tone than from his words. A general good-natured frustration means _You know I paint outside on Fridays. Why do you act like you forget?_ A sharper, less indulgent exasperation means _Your problem is with me. Stop taking it out on Pike._ A flutter of excited pride means a painting sold, and a flare of flat, terrified anger is—well. That's new.

" _No,_ " Henry's saying, and though his voice shakes, Pike has never heard him sound so sure. "Under _no_ circumstances—I don't _care,_ Mary Margaret. I don't—because that isn't who we _are_ —actually, I'm being the most selfless I've ever been… Yes, Pike, for starters _—no,_ it's not—"

Putting the last fork in the drying rack, Pike drains the water and turns to stand beside Henry. Henry won't want to be touched right now, but they stand shoulder to shoulder, and every few inhales their breaths match up, brushing their arms together, and it seems to be enough to keep Henry from flying off into space.

Henry takes a deep breath. "Mary Margaret," he says evenly, "if you breathe a word to this man about how to find me, I'll terminate our agreement, and you'll never see me again. Personally or professionally." He pauses to listen to her response, and Pike tries to remember the last time he saw that angry glimmer in Henry's eyes. "Mary Margaret, don't test me," he snaps. He listens again. "Yes. Thank you. Good night."

Henry hangs up, gives Pike a look that speaks volumes in apologies, and walks out of the cabin.

Pike gives him ten minutes. When Henry Hart gets upset, he runs away. Like he always has. Difference now is that he runs to the porch, rather than to New York. Pike lets him go. He's no stranger to needing to be alone with jumbled thoughts. Normally five minutes is plenty, but normally Henry's not this angry.

After ten minutes of flipping through the new _Cooks Illustrated_ that came today, Pike grabs two beers from the refrigerator, calls softly to Frances, and pushes out onto the porch. Henry's sitting on the steps, back bowed, head in his hands. Frances gallops up to him, whining in confusion and trying to shove her nose into his mass of hands and head, not understanding where her other human's gone. Pike goes to shoo her away, but Henry reaches out and buries a hand in her fur, so Pike leaves her be as he drops onto the steps.

He tries to get the distance right: close enough to be comforting, far enough away to keep giving Henry space. Only Henry lets go of Frances and crowds against Pike's side, so Pike wraps his arm around Henry's shoulders and waits.

After a minute of sitting, Henry grabs one of the beer bottles from Pike's hand and takes a long pull, though he stays pressed close. "She found a buyer for _Love Weather_."

"The one with the snowstorm coming?" Pike asks. Henry nods, and Pike presses his lips to the top of Henry's head. "That one's nice."

It used to bother Pike not to have have better words to describe Henry's work and its effect on him. He's read the reviews, and they use language about color theory and hidden symbolism and the epic desolation of the rural metier, whatever that means. But Henry has said, repeatedly, that one honest compliment from Pike means more to him than five hundred words in the _Times_ , so Pike tries to worry less.

Henry smiles, small and pleased around the rim of his beer bottle. "She thinks there's a couple commissions in it, too."

Pike smiles. "That'll be good."

But Henry shakes his head, and Pike sees the anger creeping back in. "He's only interested—in any of it—if he can come to Big Eden and meet me. 'The artist in his lair,' Mary Margaret said. Pretentious snob."

Pike shrugs. "Get him out here, then."

" _No_ ," Henry snarls. "I know this guy's type, Pike, okay? William Wentworth IV, his name is, and they're a dime a dozen in the New York art world. Cultured old money elitists who calculate the dollar value of everyone and everything they see and don't understand the meaning of 'no.'"

"You think we haven't dealt with that before? You were gone a long time, Henry Hart." Henry freezes, scowling at his beer. Even though he was the one who chose to Leave Big Eden, he doesn't like to be reminded of it now. Pike nudges Henry's shoulder with his own. "We can handle it." That's all he means.

Henry shakes his head. "I don't want this guy coming out here with a dozen high-end real estate developers. Big Eden is special. If something happened to it because of me—"

" _Not_ because of you," Pike says firmly. He rests his hand against the side of Henry's neck, and Henry slumps against him with a defeated huff. "I hope Mary Margaret honors your wishes," Pike says. "But we can handle anything." Pike can tell that Henry doesn't believe him, but he lets himself be held and comforted, and Pike likes to to hope that, eventually, he feels less hopeless.

*

Henry is watching Jim and Wheeler fight about the espresso machine when the bell over the door jingles. He catches a hint of Armani cologne, and his senses go on high alert. That scent does _not_ belong in Big Eden.

The man looking around the store with undisguised glee is in his early sixties, at a guess, with thick gray hair and the sort of tan you only get by spending half the year on Caribbean cruises. He's wearing a thick black coat and shoes that cost more than Henry and Pike's wardrobes combined. He looks delighted and amused with an air of supercilious sneering, like he's scripting what he'll tell his old-money cronies about "those adorable rubes" in Montana. Henry's hackles are definitely raised. It's Wentworth. It has to be.

Pure, incandescent rage floods him. Mary Margaret was his best friend in New York, but if she's broken her promise, he will fly to LaGuardia for the sole purpose of ending her. With a paintbrush.

The guys, bless them, don't notice the intruder. They keep arguing about espresso and ice fishing and whether Dick's mother should be driving anymore (she should _not_ ). Pike's on alert, though; Henry sees it in the tense set of his shoulders and the slight widening of his eyes. He knows this is no tourist. Still, he's learned a lot since those painful early days when he'd hidden from Henry behind a shopping list. Henry watches proudly as he looks this stranger in the eye and asks how he can help.

"I'm looking for Henry Hart," Wentworth says.

Pike glances at the counter. He looks like he's rearranging the maps in the rack next to the cash register, but Henry recognizes the stall tactic. _Waiting for me,_ Henry realizes. For an indication of how to play this.

Rescue comes from the least expected corner. "The artist?" Jim scratches his cheek and looks at the ceiling like he's thinking hard. "Read an article 'bout him a while back. Big deal in New York or some such." He packs so much contempt into the name that Henry would feel offended if two of his pieces weren't hanging in the Soams living room.

"Oh, yeah," Pike says. "From the other Big Eden." Henry would kiss him this instant if it wouldn't give the game away.

Wentworth boggles at Pike. "There's _another_ Big Eden?" he demands. He tuts and under his breath adds, "Of course there is." Henry thinks that's rich coming from a man who lives in New York City in New York County in New York State. "And where is that?"

Henry sits quiet and still while Pike and Jim do a vaudeville-worthy schtick giving Wentworth directions to "the other Big Eden," complete with mind-numbing arguments about road construction, rock slides, and moose stampedes. Wentworth sucks it all down, scribbling and scratching out frantically in a sleek Moleskine notebook. By the time they're done, even Henry's confused about where the directions lead. Middle of a lake, probably.

Thing is, Wentworth is looking at them like he's found God's chosen people. He probably doesn't believe that they're _capable_ of lying, let alone lying to someone as important as he obviously considers himself to be. He eats up their obfuscation with a spoon and thanks them on his way out the door.

Jim opens his mouth the instant the bell chimes behind Wentworth, but Bird holds up a hand to silence him, listening. After a few seconds, he nods. "He's gone."

"We've bought ourselves a day at most," Jim says. "If he's smart, he'll find someplace to hole up for the night."

Pike taps the map. "Hotel not far from where he'll come around the rock slide."

"There really is a rock slide?" Bird asks, going up to the counter. Everyone's moving now, crowding around Jim and squinting at the map. Henry should join them, but he can't move. All he can do is sit on the couch and think about how much trouble he's brought to this place and these people he loves.

"Henry Hart." Jim's voice, kind but firm, cuts through the haze in his brain. "Help us think this through."

Henry forces himself to his feet and moves forward, but the guys give him unimpressed scowls until he goes around to Pike's side of the counter. Pike smiles and brushes his fingers over Henry's, in a gesture he makes seem accidental, as they turn their attention back to the map.

"We need Anna," Henry says, reaching for the phone. It's not a solution, but it's the only practical action he can think of. And it makes sense: a threat to Big Eden has shown itself, and the mayor should know about it.

Henry keeps half his attention on his phone call with Anna and a quarter on the conversation behind him. The last quarter is floating, lost to anxiety and self-recrimination. Still, when he hangs up he feels oddly satisfied, though he can't remember what he's said. He drifts back to the counter and leans as surreptitiously as he can against Pike.

Pike hooks his pinkie over Henry's. It's a small point of contact, but Henry focuses on it for all he's worth, letting Pike's love be like a kite string, keeping him tethered while letting him float inside his head until he's ready to rejoin the world.

"Zoning," Leon's saying. "Change the zoning so he can't build anything he wants to."

"We don't know what he'll want to," Lloyd protests.

"So we zone it so he can't build _anything._ "

"You're overreacting," Jim says, rolling his eyes. "We don't know if he even cares about developing. Maybe he's just an eccentric art collector. It's okay to be prepared. Just seems like we're laying in a lot of ammo for a siege we're not sure is coming."

A small part of Henry agrees with that, and a bigger part _wants_ to. But he's seen too many men like Wentworth force the world into the shapes they favor, regardless of what anyone else needs. He's determined to avoid that fate for Big Eden at any cost.

When the bell chimes, every head in the joint whips over, as though everyone's terrified that Wentworth figured out their trick and has come back for Henry. But it's Anna and Dean. They've brought Grace.

Dean pulls Henry into one of his crushing hugs that lasts forever. It goes so long that Henry relaxes, starts to feel settled. Then it _keeps_ going, for so long that—"Okay, Dean, it's getting weird."

Dean pulls back and drops his arms. He cuts a quick, guilty glance at Pike, who raises his eyebrows. "Are you okay?" Dean demands, searching Henry's face, his hands rising to Henry's shoulders. "Anna said you were freaked out. I—we got here as soon as we could."

Henry smiles tightly and squeezes Dean's wrists. "I'm better now." He smiles at Pike over Dean's shoulder. "Pike's helping."

Dean's expression sags, and he takes a step back. "Right." He waves sheepishly. "Hey, Pike."

Pike nods. "Dean."

"Okay, people," Grace says, breaking the awkwardness before they get stuck in it. "Let's deal with this guy."

*

Pike closes early and makes everyone dinner. It's trickier than it seems; he's so used to cooking for two that scaling up for twelve is daunting, especially when Grace and the guys have a whole host of medical issues to consider. Plus it's been a long time since he tried to cook with so many people underfoot; he's forgotten how much these guys can meddle.

Finally everyone's holding bowls of rice and lentils with celeriac and ground turkey, and Pike relaxes for the first time since William Wentworth IV walked through the door. He won't tell Henry this, at least not in front of the others, but Pike's not worried about this guy. What he said last night was true: in the eighteen years Henry was away from Big Eden, the rest of them dealt with a fair few outsiders (and a couple misguided insiders) looking to turn the town into The Next Big Thing. Tourist havens, corporate retreats, strip mines, pipelines—Pike's seen it all. Every time, the people of Big Eden stepped up to deal with the threat the way they deal with everything: together.

Still, he gets where Henry's worry comes from. It's one thing for some Las Vegas millionaire to "discover" the place when his car breaks down and decide it's the perfect location for his new casino resort. It's another thing for the wolf to come to the door because _you_ look like a particularly tasty sheep. Pike's been in Henry's shoes. They are _not_ comfortable.

Anna's musing about their problem from a long-term town planning standpoint. Pike lets her words wash over him. He pays more attention to Henry, who's relaxing in increments against his side. Pike smiles and slings his arm over the back of the couch behind Henry's shoulders. It's about the extent of display he's willing to engage in in public, but it helps Henry feel better. Okay, it helps Pike feel better, too.

Wentworth will come back tomorrow, and eventually they'll have to deal with Mary Margaret's bad judgment in sending him here. That can wait for now. Pike's bought Henry time to let go and _be_. He can give Henry that much.

*

On Thursdays, Henry helps Grace mold the young minds of Big Eden. The school district can't afford him full time. That's okay; he can't imagine doing it full time. The children may be our future, but Henry can only deal with so much of them in the present. But for one day a week, he can teach elementary and junior high students everything from color theory and paint mixing to finding your Inner Muse. He can give that to the town.

At the end of the day he walks out of the school with Grace. Dean's a step behind them, wrangling Andrew into his coat while tripping over Ben, who's walking while staring in awe at the papier-mâché horse he made today. Becky's trying to keep him corralled and out of the way, but he's in his own world and oblivious to her efforts. Ben and art are a potent combination. He'll sleep with that horse on his pillow tonight if he can find a way to be sure he won't damage it.

Henry's telling a story about the youngest Sawyer girl when he spots the sleek black Cadillac idling on the curb, and his skin prickles all over. You can only rent a car like that at the airport, and you would only do it if you didn't understand what you were driving toward.

"Henry?" Grace asks. "Is everything okay?"

He squeezes her arm. "Yeah, sure, it's fine. Stay here a minute. I'll be right back."

He could play dumb. Continue to deny he's the man Wentworth's looking for; spin another yarn about a different Big Eden or a different Henry Hart. But if Wentworth came to the school, he knows _something_ (How? He owes Mary Margaret a _long_ call when this is over). Maybe if Henry talks to him, lets him know he's not interested in working together if it means Wentworth invading his town, then Wentworth will leave, and the crisis will be over.

Henry strides forward as the driver's side door opens. For the first time in ages, he is acutely, _painfully_ aware of his appearance. He hasn't shaved in a week. Flecks of color liberally dot his T-shirt, the one he found in the unclaimed items box at the community center and only wears on painting days. The red flannel overshirt he grabbed this morning is Pike's; it looks great on Pike but makes Henry look like Jack stealing clothes from the giant.

Henry loved New York, and sometimes he misses it. But he doesn't miss how it encouraged him to constantly compare himself to everyone else—and to find himself wanting. He didn't miss how it made him question not just whether he'd succeeded "enough" but whether his bar for "enough success" was high enough—even whether he was trying to succeed at "the right thing."

Now with a spark of righteous indignation in him, Henry takes a handful of more aggressive steps toward Wentworth. "William Wentworth?" he calls.

Wentworth looks up, startled. Then a sly smile curls his mouth. "The fourth. You're a difficult man to find, Mr. Hart."

Henry shrugs. "I'm right here. You just need to know how to look."

Wentworth's eyes narrow. "You were at the store yesterday. You sat there while those yokels gave me directions to the middle of a quarry." He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. "I wouldn't have taken you for a cruel man."

Henry crosses his arms. It's nowhere near as impressive as when Pike or Dean does it, nor as intimidating as when Grace or Anna does it, but it gets his point across. "Call me protective," he says flatly.

Wentworth bats his eyes. Literally, no exaggeration, _bats his eyes_ at Henry. "Do you need protection from _me_ , Mr. Hart?" he asks coyly, and Henry kind of wants to retch.

"Jury's still out," he says, though every word of this conversation tips Wentworth into the _Get out of my town_ column.

But then the weirdest damned thing happens. Wentworth leans forward, _way_ into Henry's personal space, and whispers in his ear, "It's okay, Mr. Hart. I'm here to get you out."

Henry flinches back and holds his hands up to keep Wentworth at a safer distance. "Out of _where_?" he demands.

"Out of…" Wentworth waves a hand around. " _Here_."

Henry is _really_ alarmed now. "Please don't do that!" he says, barely registering the way his voice squeaks. "I struggled enough to get here in the first place."

"But—" Wentworth purses his lips and leans out of Henry's space. "Perhaps I should start over."

Henry crosses his arms again. "I think you'd better."

A business card case appears from the recesses of Wentworth's coat, and he hands Henry a white card with elaborate silver swirls and lettering. _William Howard Wentworth IV,_ it says. _The Urban Rescue Project._ "I'm here representing a group that offers… not inconsiderable financial resources to gay men who find themselves trapped in untenable positions."

He waits with an eager air while Henry mulls that over. "When you say 'untenable,' you mean 'outside of New York,' right?"

Wentworth nods.

"And… 'trapped'?"

Wentworth shakes his head sadly. "The pressures on the modern man are legion, Mr. Hart. Family guilt. Straitened economic circumstances. The pressure to… conform can be… prodigious."

He keeps glancing behind Henry while he says that last bit, and Henry turns to see what he's looking at. A loud guffaw bursts from his mouth. " _Anna_?" Henry gasps. "You think I'm in danger from _Anna_?"

Wentworth purses his lips. On the sidewalk, Anna raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "Henry?" she calls. "Is everything okay?"

Henry waves and turns back to Wentworth. "I'm sorry. You were telling me about the danger I'm in from my best friend's fiancée." He glares. "She's also the mayor, so tread carefully."

Wentworth draws himself up and tries to look haughty. "Mr. Hart, I was struck by the beauty of your work at an exhibit opening at the Whitney Gallery. I asked Ms. Bishop about you, but she was frustratingly tight-lipped."

Oh. He owes Mary Margaret an apology, then.

"Urban Rescue did all the research we could, but we could discover only that you'd lived in New York for fifteen years before moving back to rural Montana two years ago to care for an ailing relative. So far as anyone knew, you haven't returned to New York since. We see it all too often. Promising gay artists and innovators at the precipice of fame, forced to return to narrow-minded small towns where they must hide who and what they are. Sometimes they even find themselves forced into marriage. With a _woman._ " Wentworth shudders, and Henry rolls his eyes. The gay Manhattanite's misogyny: one thing he does _not_ miss about New York.

Henry slaps Wentworth on the shoulder of his thousand-dollar coat just to watch him twitch. "You guys gotta get out of Midtown sometimes. Meet some gay men you've never slept with. Maybe some lesbians." Wentworth makes a face, and Henry's _done_ with this conversation. "Let me make this easy for you: I'm in Big Eden by my own choice. No one's forcing me to stay, and I'm in _no_ danger of being railroaded into marriage. I don't need rescuing, Mr. Wentworth. Go back to New York."

Wentworth looks like Henry's told him the moon's made of Camembert. "But… _why_?"

Henry raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly from Wentworth's expensive ensemble, daisy-fresh despite the hell he's undoubtedly put it through in the past eighteen hours, to his own, wrinkled, paint-spattered, and mostly stolen from other people.

Wentworth hums in concession. "Yes, I see." He holds out his hand, and Henry shakes.

"By the way," Henry says, "your research is crap. I've been to New York three times."

"In two years?" Wentworth looks appalled.

"Two times too many, you ask me."

Henry rolls his eyes as Dean's arm falls across his shoulders. Dean leans in too close, probably looking to Wentworth like he's nuzzling Henry's neck. "Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean has the sense to look abashed. "Anna said you needed help?"

"Anna did not!" Anna shouts from behind them. Henry smirks, and Dean flushes.

"Dean," Henry says gently, "I got this. Go bother your family."

Dean gives the soppy half-grin he always gets when he thinks about Anna and the kids. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Mr. Wentworth is leaving."

Wentworth looks between them, and then at Anna, and then nods. "Yes. I believe I am."

And… it's more than Henry owes the guy, but he's feeling charitable, with some of his nearest and dearest close by and Pike waiting at home, so he says, "For what it's worth, you met my partner yesterday. He owns the store. One of the so-called yokels who—very deliberately, I assure you—gave you directions to that 'other' Big Eden."

He watches Wentworth's face as he thinks over his time in the store yesterday, considering and rejecting faces. Finally, with surprising hesitance given his general bravado, he says, "The tall one? With the hair?"

Henry beams. He's _really_ looking forward to telling Pike this story. The look on his face will be _priceless._ Dean muffles his snickers in Henry's shoulder, and Henry lifts his eyebrows and waits while Wentworth tries to fit a Pike-shaped piece into his mental picture of Henry Hart.

Wentworth nods. "Well, then," he says, like it means something.  Maybe it does. After all: _Pike_. "I really am looking forward to working with you on those commissions, Mr. Hart," Wentworth says. " _Love Weather_ is a very special work. I'm sorry for the confusion."

Henry feels the weight of Dean's arm around his shoulders. He hears Grace and Anna talking and the kids scuffling behind him. He thinks of Pike and Frances and home. He glances up at the cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly above him, and he smiles. "Who's confused, Mr. Wentworth?"

*

When the screen door opens, Pike looks up with a ready smile, but it isn't Henry coming onto the porch and pressing a beer into his hand. It's Dean. Pike freezes like a spooked rabbit, beer bottle slipping in suddenly clammy palms, while Dean drops onto the porch and sighs. "Hey, Pike. Henry thought you might need…" He trails off, half-heartedly gesturing to the beer in Pike's hands.

"Thanks."

"He'd've come, but." But he's trapped in the guys' dramatic retelling of The Tale of Big Eden Versus William Wentworth IV.

Pike nods. He's not sure how everyone ended up coming home with Henry, but having both of them living at the store has somehow turned the place into even more of a drop-in community center than when it was just him. He likes the near constant flow of people in and out, so long as no one expects him to talk to them. It feels less lonely. He can hardly remember lonely, these days.

There's silence for a minute. Pike's aware of Dean throwing him glances from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting for Pike to say something. He'll be waiting a long time.

He and Dean have come a long way since the night Dean drunkenly accused Pike of "stealing" Henry and took a (bad) swing at him. They're more than cordial when Dean comes into the store, or when Pike goes to the Ace. Pike and Henry go with Dean and Anna and the kids to parties and events in town, and once or twice they've had just Dean and Anna over, like a double date. But, as much as Henry would love it, Pike and Dean will probably never be friends. Too many old hurts.

Finally, Dean sighs again and says, "I'm sorry, Pike."

Pike drinks his beer and counts to three. "About what?"

"At the school today, I—I don't know why I do it. I mean, I'm engaged to Anna, and you and Henry are as married as two guys can get, but I still…" He shakes his head and worries the label of his bottle. "I charge in like he's mine to rescue."

Pike snorts. "Like he needs rescuing at all."

"Yeah." Dean chuckles ruefully. "Got an earful about that on the way home. From him and Anna both." Behind them, the door creaks open. Dean doesn't seem to notice, and Pike's not going to interrupt him. " _If_ Henry needed rescuing, I know that's your job now, not mine. But I—for so many years when I was away from Big Eden, Henry was my touchstone. No matter where I went or what happened, I knew I was the most important person in Henry's life, after his family, and I… don't know how to act now that I'm not. I kind of miss it sometimes. Does that make me an asshole?"

Pike drinks his beer so he doesn't have to answer, but he must've given something away, in the startled way his eyebrows went up, maybe, because Dean deflates.

"Here's a hint," Henry says from behind them. "It's been a _long_ time since you were the most important person in my life."

Dean jumps and tries to scramble to his feet, but Henry puts his hand on the top of Dean's head and shoves him down. Pike smiles into his beer. Henry drops onto the porch between them and leans against Pike. Pike drapes an arm around Henry's shoulders, his hand over Henry's heart.

Dean looks like he's swallowed a bug. "I—"

"No, Dean." Henry holds up his hand. "I was hung up on you for way longer than I should've been; we all know that. But I didn't build those eighteen years _around you_. I painted; I had friends; I dated. If telling yourself a story about me helped when your marriage got bad, that's fine. Just don't confuse your story with my reality."

Dean looks _devastated_. Pike feels briefly guilty about being here to witness this. It seems too dark, too personal for anyone but Henry and Dean. But Henry reaches up and threads his fingers with Pike's, and Pike wonders if that's his point: there _is_ no "Henry and Dean." Not since high school, and maybe _never_ the way any of them have been picturing it.

And then, because leave it to Henry Hart to fix a situation in the weirdest, most awkward way possible, he reaches out and takes Dean's hand. He places it over his heart, sort of tangling Dean's fingers with his own and with Pike's. It's strange and uncomfortable, both physically and emotionally, and Pike fights his urge to detach from the whole situation and leave Henry and Dean to whatever moment they're having.

But he gets it. Whatever else happens, after everything they've been through, the three of them have a bond. It's oddly shaped, but it's real and undeniable and probably unbreakable.

"You're in here," Henry tells Dean, tapping Dean's fingers over his heart. "You're my best friend. If only speaking once in eighteen years couldn't change that, nothing could. But I've learned that it's much better to put something other than a person at the center of my life. I'm a real live boy with a real live heart now." He smiles at Pike, and Pike's breath catches as he ducks his head behind Henry's so they won't see his sappy smile. "Pike's _much_ closer to that center than you are."

Pike does feel bad about how close to tears Dean looks. He knows what it's like to have a fundamental concept of your life knocked off-kilter. He nudges Dean's fingers with his own and smiles when Dean looks at him, startled and cautiously pleased.

Henry grins. "That's what I like to see," he says.

Dean laughs uncertainly, and Pike sets down his beer so he can rest his other hand on the porch and lean back, drawing Henry with him. Dean pulls his hand back and rubs his palms on his jeans. "Well, uh, I should go," he says. He raises his voice. " _Someone_ promised the kids ice cream."

"You, Dean," Anna calls from inside the store. " _You_ promised them ice cream."

Dean grins more genuinely and pushes to his feet. "Guess it was me," he says with a laugh. Henry returns it and swats lazily at Dean's calf.

Dean's expression turns serious as he considers them, Pike leaning back, one hand braced on the porch, Henry leaning against him, their hands linked on Henry's sternum. He nods. "You two, you're _good_ , you know?"

Henry squeezes Pike's hand. "Yeah," he says. "We know." Pike just smiles.

"All right," Dean says, "I'm gone. Night, guys."

"Night," Henry says.

"Good night, Dean," Pike says.

Dean opens the door, and Frances charges onto the porch. Pike hears Dean say, "None of you hooligans want ice cream, right?" before the door swings shut again.

As soon as he's gone, Henry sighs and slumps against Pike. Pike kisses the top of his head and rests his cheek there. Henry sighs again, happily this time. His thumb sweeps Pike's palm in slow arcs, and Pike shivers. He _really_ hopes Dean and Anna shoo everyone else out when they leave.

"Strangest couple days," Henry muses. Pike hums his agreement. "You know, I've had plenty of straight people try to save me from being gay. This is the first time someone gay thought they needed to save me from being straight."

"Did he really think someone had made you marry the mayor?"

Henry chuckles. "It was strongly implied. Seemed very confused when I said I was with you." There's a wickedness in Henry's tone as he adds, "He called you 'the tall one with the hair.'"

Pike scowls, half at the news and half at the way it makes Henry shake with laughter.

"Ah, well," Henry sighs. "Farewell, my knight in shining Cadillac, coming to rescue me from all things not New York."

Pike's heart thunders in his ears. There's a question that's almost always on the tip of his tongue, one he's never had the guts to ask, because he doesn't want to know the answer. In light of recent events, he thinks it's time. "Do you miss it? New York?"

Henry wobbles his head back and forth against Pike's shoulder. "Parts of it. Sometimes. I lived there a long time. I had places I went a lot. People I liked. The city gets into your head."

Pike nods. He knows how a place can do that. He takes a deep breath, because that wasn't the real question. "Do you want to go back?"

Henry drops Pike's hand like it's scalded him and sits up fast, turning so they face each other. " _No_ ," he says fiercely. "Never. New York was in my head, but Big Eden was in my heart, even when I didn't want it to be." He takes Pike's hands and looks around, taking in everything from Pike and Frances to the vast, starlit sky arching above them. He looks at Pike and smiles softly. "I had to go to New York to find the person I'm supposed to be. But I had to come back to Big Eden to be that person."

Pike smiles so widely he probably looks like he broke something in his face. He takes one of his hands from Henry's and cups Henry's jaw, drawing him in for a kiss.

And in that kiss he swears he feels it—swears he _tastes_ it—all those things Henry's talking about: the way Henry had chafed against the limitations of Big Eden, the way he'd run all the way to New York to slip those bounds, the way he'd been drawn back against his will, and the way he'd finally found home here, in this place, with Pike. It's a heady rush of sensation, and Pike feels dizzy with it, like his head could bubble up and float away.

Pike pulls back, but they stay in each other's space, sharing air, noses bumping, until Frances whines and nudges her nose against Pike's knee. He scratches her between the ears, laughing when she thumps her tail so excitedly against Henry's ribcage he almost falls over.

Pike's never sought out much in life. He had his home, his dog, work that made life interesting enough. Then Henry Hart came back to Big Eden, asking no more or less than that Pike let him seep into the spaces that remained, like water seeping into thawing ground in spring. Henry's turned Pike's life upside down, and yet in some ways nothing's changed. He doesn't feel _different_. Just… _more_.

"I like the person you're supposed to be," Pike says quietly. It isn't enough, could never _be_ enough to say everything he feels on the subject of Henry's return and the man he's become, but by now Henry understands how to read the unsaid things that hide under every word Pike gets out.

Henry smiles that smile he never gives anyone else and trails his fingers through Pike's hair. "Yeah? I never would've been brave enough to be him without you."

Pike isn't sure that's true. Henry never has given himself enough credit. But it's probably true that Henry wouldn't've stayed in Big Eden if not for Pike, and if he couldn't be himself in New York, well, maybe there's something to it after all. It doesn't matter now. Henry's here now, and even if he goes back to New York one day, Pike's determined that he'll never regret the time he spends here.

Pike kisses him again, steady and sure like the mountains, catching that scent of paint and broad sky that always clings to Henry. "I'm glad you came home." For once, it's exactly what he means to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Will you [tumbl with me](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)?


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